


Flower

by Effluvium



Series: Emotional Excuses [6]
Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Peter, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-19 17:05:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13708857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Effluvium/pseuds/Effluvium
Summary: She ran her thin, dark fingers over the leather cover, picking up indents and creases from the years of abuse it’d gone through.  There was almost something warm about it when she eyed it, something old and familiar, comfortable.





	Flower

She saw it before anyone.

It was in the way he stumbled, the way he eyed the ground, the way he kept himself locked beneath his injuries. It was more than grief, more than sadness; it was guilt, a kind that he didn’t quite know how to properly comprehend.

It was small, and it hurt, and she didn’t know how to sympathize.

“Peter?”

He hadn’t responded to his name, instead turning away and walking down the hallways and out of the building. He hadn’t looked at her, and it hurt a lot more than she thought it would.

She left too, afterwards. His house was small; looking at it made her shiver, made her want to hide under a blanket. It made her want to light the fireplace and watch the flames dance across the walls, made her want to heat her face with the warm, dangerous energy.

And then there was the notebook.

It was barely the size of her palm, but it was heavy, full of old, crumpled yellow pages and rough, horrid handwriting. It’d been stepped on and thrown more than once, the book not quite capable of laying flat and tidy. 

She ran her thin, dark fingers over the leather cover, picking up indents and creases from the years of abuse it’d gone through. There was almost something warm about it when she eyed it, something old and familiar, comfortable.

Her heart crumpled when she opened it.

_I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry_ \-- they were cold and young, the words on the page. They started like that of someone not-quite-sane and ended in regret and longing, rattling her insides with a harsh, intolerable pain that sat as discontent in the pit of her stomach.

_I can’t stand it, I’m sorry, please forgive me_ \-- the pencil went on and on and on, writing itself in dates and sentences, the font becoming smoother and easier to understand as the pages went on and on. There was a horror there as she kept going, as they didn’t stop, as she could understand the _I love you all_ , the _I’m so sorry_ , and the _remember me when I’m not here_ \--

She shut it. 

Dust flew.

It was November 16th. The book hadn’t been opened in a long, long while.

That made her feel better.

Michelle left the frigid, grey complex afterwards. The air outside was warmer despite it being mid-November. May was long-since gone and Peter was already recovered, but there still seemed to be some hurt in the apartment, some sort of suffering still laying in May’s bed, still sleeping on the old, ratty couch in the living room.

She wanted it gone.

She wanted it dead.

Rain fell. Michelle didn’t have a jacket, but her eyes caught sight of a small, elderly woman sitting on the rusting blue bench outside of the local flower shop. She had a green hat on and a wool, vintage blue dress; her shoes were red and her bag was a bright, cheery yellow.

The sky was grey. The roads were grey, too.

The rain was colorless.

She was sitting by the flower shop.

“You don’t have any flowers.”

The woman looked up, squinting through her leopard eyeglasses. She then tilted her head, a curious look on her face as she smiled. “I don’t need flowers.”

Michelle was standing in front of her, rain flattening her small, intricate curls, a frown forming on her face. “But you’re sitting outside the flower shop.”

“The flowers are dead, dear.” The woman blinked. “I don’t want dead flowers.”

Michelle made a face, looking at the shop window in front of them. Inside were hundreds of beautiful, blooming petals, bright colors popping out almost uncharacteristically. She turned back, confused. “They’re alive; Mr. Reed prides himself in those flowers.”

The woman grinned, her teeth a brilliant white. “Have you ever written a story?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever heard an orchestra?”

“Yes.”

A nod. “Have you ever played in an orchestra?”

A shake. “No.”

“I have,” the woman commended, pulling out a purple umbrella, opening it, and patting the seat next to her. “Have you ever touched an instrument?”

Michelle sat. “I haven’t.”

“I played the viola,” she beamed, looking down at her hands, eyeing the decade-old calluses on her fingertips. “The strings were strong, the instrument was expensive; I stuck to it with a passion, held it close and played with heart. The strings vibrated; I felt it in my bones, every pluck, every note, and it warmed me.”

A bird landed on the sidewalk in front of them, its wings blue and its head brown. It jumped around, pecking at the concrete, then flew up and landed on Michelle’s crossed knee, craning its neck up at her expectantly.

“It’s the kind of power you put into your words, when you write.” The woman held her forefinger out, sighing when the bird jumped to it. “That control, that love; it’s familiar and comfortable.”

She struck her arm out, throwing the creature into the sky, watching it fly off through the rain. “My mother died when I was about thirty-two. Car accident. Broke every bone in her elderly body and left a crumpled heap on the side of the road. I didn’t find out why she hadn’t come to my orchestral finals until after the performance.”

A chill ran through Michelle’s body, a lump stuck in her throat. “I’m sorry.”

“That was fifty-one years ago.” The woman nodded to the flower shop, brown eyes catching the _OPEN_ sign hanging from inside the door. “I went inside this shop and bought the largest, most beautiful bouquet of flowers; roses, lilies, Aster, poppies. I managed to find Gazania, too -- her favorite.

“I laid them on the mound of dirt they’d covered her coffin with; a beautiful pop of color against the brown, muddy earth.” The woman clenched her jaw. “And a few days later, they died, and became the same disgusting, desolate color.”

The rain fell harder. A jet flew in the distance, a low roar reverberating throughout the sky. Brown leaves crumpled under passing footsteps.

“My friend’s Aunt died a few weeks ago,” Michelle spoke, breaking the silence. “He was comatose for twelve days and wheelchair bound for about a week.”

“How is he now?”

“Different. I’m worried.”

“Why?”

“He’s the kind of person who’s afraid to cry,” Michelle conceded, a wispy tone in her voice. “The kind of person who holds themself guilty for everything.”

“Hero-complex?”

She nodded, looking at the woman. “He’s got this notebook. It’s horrifying and small and old.”

“I have a pen,” the woman noted, a softness in her words. “It’s written some horrible things, too.”

“I’m sorry about your mother.” Michelle whispered. “And about the flowers.”

The woman sighed, a content smile on her face. “I’m Anne.”

“Michelle.”

“Keep track of him, Michelle.” Anne pressed, standing steadily, handing the umbrella to the girl. “Don’t lose him.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry this one's so short. I hope you all still like it!


End file.
